chanson de geste
by Cora Clavia
Summary: A song of heroic deeds. In related items, the line between hero and damsel can disappear at the most convenient times. Fraser/Thatcher.


title: _chanson de geste_ (or, _Exploring Fic Formula #827344546_)  
summary: A song of heroic deeds. In related items, the line between hero and damsel can disappear at the most convenient times.  
disclaimer: I do not own _Due South_ or its characters. This work is intended solely for entertainment.

Season 2, between ATQH and Red, White Or Blue.

I don't know why I keep titling Due South fic in French. But I do.

* * *

Fraser's knee-deep in table linens and sparkling cutlery and tasteful arrangements of daffodils and irises and tulips when Ovitz pokes his head into the ballroom, narrowly missing a collision with one of the catering staff.

"Fraser? Thatcher's asking for you. In her office."

"On my way."

Fraser bounds up the stairs, tugging at his already-straight tunic before tapping at her door. "Inspector?"

"Fraser. Come in."

He steps inside, easing the door shut behind him to lessen the noise, and turns towards her desk. "Sir, I - oh."

She's wearing a strapless gown, deep blue satin, touches of sparkle, and he has to take a breath. Oh.

Wow.

"Fraser. Hello."

"Inspector." He swallows. "You look - ah - very nice." It's inadequate, but the sweep of more honest compliments in his mind sound far too romantic to say to a woman who told him to forget the time they kissed.

Her cheeks are pink, but she just smiles. "Thank you."

There's a moment where he just looks at her, and she looks at him, before he finally regains his sense of propriety, if only marginally. "I'm sorry, sir. Did you need something?"

"This is a bit of an awkward request, but, um - could you zip me up?"

Her arms are folded in front of her dress, and he realizes it's not simply a posture; she is, quite literally, holding it up, lest it fall down, leaving her -

- oh.

"Of - of course, ma'am."

He steps closer, and that's when she turns to give him better access. And he's staring at her naked back, the smooth skin bare, and he thinks she should be wearing some kind of support garment under it or _something_ just so he's not seeing her completely unclothed down to her waist.

"Fraser?"

"Sorry, ma'am. Here."

He's faintly surprised she's asking him, but then again, there are no female staff at the consulate, and while Ovitz is a fine person, she seems more comfortable with Fraser. Ever since -

He tries to focus, but the moment he puts his hands on her shoulders, she starts, taking a breath, and his whole body goes hotly aware. Her skin is as smooth as it looks, warm, and the unbidden thought of brushing her hair aside and stooping lower to press his lips to the nape of her neck sets his mind on fire.

But he can't, so he manages to keep his composure as he finds the bottom of the zipper and slides it up the line of her back, careful not to catch her skin. Her breath is coming a little too quickly; apparently he's not the only one affected.

He has to say something, if only to break the tension.

"Is your shoulder still sore?" It was a few days ago she'd gotten it wrenched by a fleeing suspect; there was no serious damage, but he knows she's been aching since then, and she hasn't quite regained full range of motion. Not surprising she needs help now.

She hums. "Not as bad as it was, but I couldn't quite twist far enough. I appreciate you doing this, Fraser."

"I'm only glad I can help, ma'am."

He gets the zipper to the top and lingers for a moment, breathing in that undefinable, gentle fragrance he's come to associate with her. His thumb brushes the skin between her shoulder blades, and she shivers slightly. She's all pale, creamy skin and bare shoulders and he's so drugged with the nearness and warmth of her that he's tempted to just give in.

It's the first time he's been this close to her since the day he kissed her, and he just wants to lose himself in that memory.

But he makes himself step away, clear his throat. "All set, ma'am."

She turns back towards him. "Thank you. I know this is well outside your regular duties."

She's exquisite. And soft. So soft, so feminine. He's never seen her dressed like this - she normally favors more conservative formalwear - and this picture, this dark-haired beauty dressed like a princess, is doing some damage to his determined self-control. Ever since the moment he's never, ever going to forget.

"It's no trouble, ma'am. If you need help removing it later -" Her eyebrows go up, and he realizes - oh. Oh dear. "Not that - I didn't mean - I wouldn't -"

Her lips quirk in a tiny smile. "I understand what you meant, Constable."

Fraser nods, his face hot. He's deliberately ignoring the mental images inspired by his slip of the tongue. "I feel I should tell you, ma'am, everything is in place for this evening. The caterers are set up, Mr. Ovitz has confirmed all transportation arrangements, Constable Turnbull is prepared to man the door, the band are just finishing their setup now, and the ballroom is ready."

"Excellent." Her eyes are sparkling, shining with some light he doesn't understand but wants to see again. "You and Ovitz have outdone yourselves, Fraser. I'm very pleased with your preparations."

"Thank you, ma'am. Will there be anything else?"

"I don't think so."

He nods briskly. "Very well."

"You're dismissed, Fraser."

"I'll see you downstairs, ma'am."

* * *

The ballroom is a sea of evening gowns and crisp tuxedos, humming with conversations in a half dozen languages, the sparkle of candles and glasses and crystal setting it aglow.

Meg cordially greets what seems to be every human in Cook County. It's a lovely cool spring night, and the evening can't even suffer from Henri Cloutier, who's inexplicably in Chicago on business, had to be invited out of civility, and on arriving, leered openly at her bare shoulders while telling her how dazzling she looks tonight and how _enchant__é_ he finds himself.

The band plays a perfect selection of jazz standards, and she finds herself pausing to enjoy the music for a moment, just watching the evening unfold.

She's not expecting Fraser to appear beside her just as she's turning away. "Fraser? Do you need something?"

"Ma'am, I apologize for the presumption, but may I have the honor of this dance?"

She's too startled to do more than say _yes_ and let him take her hand, leading her to the dance floor. He pulls her gently into his arms, and she shouldn't be enjoying this nearly so much.

It's really no surprise that Fraser's a good dancer. It seems like the kind of thing he would have learned: old-fashioned and oddly charming. He guides her through the crowd with ease, nimbly weaving his way across the floor. He leans forward, and for a moment she thinks he's actually going to kiss her -

But he only moves to speak directly into her ear.

"I'm sorry if I startled you just now, Inspector. I saw Mr. Cloutier approaching you, and I assumed, given what you've told me about your history in Ottawa, that you would prefer not to dance with him."

"You - you intercepted me?"

"In a manner of speaking, ma'am." He leans back just enough to meet her eyes, his face hesitant. "I apologize if I overstepped."

"No, not at all." She smiles softly. "I'm grateful."

"I'm glad to hear it, ma'am."

"He's a terrible dancer."

Fraser huffs a soft chuckle. His breath is hot on her skin. They fall silent for a moment, Meg breathing in the clean scent of his soap and the faint trace of the oil he uses on his regular belt, though he's in formals tonight. She hasn't been this close to him - in his arms, held close, since -

"Actually, ma'am - I apologize, but this has only just occurred to me - given the ruse you enacted when Mr. Cloutier first came to Chicago, and our current activity, are you concerned he will believe that you and I are still -" he seems to be searching for a tactful word - "involved?"

She catches a glimpse of Henri's jowls across the room. He's not-very-subtly watching her, looking faintly disapproving. Meg's somewhat disappointed - but not surprised - that he wasn't taking her seriously that night at the restaurant. Pity. She'd felt particularly satisfied, walking away with Fraser at her side.

"I guess I hadn't thought of it that way."

"If you'd rather stop dancing, ma'am, I can steer us towards the other side of the room first," he offers quietly. "My intent was not to cause you more trouble."

She fixes him with a warm look. "What makes you think I don't want to dance with you, Constable?"

Fraser's handsome face flushes at that, his mouth opening, then closing, before a small smile settles on his lips. "Very foolish of me to assume, ma'am."

His arm tightens on her back, pulling her closer, and Meg can't help but turn her face towards him. Even in her heels, she's shorter than he is. He turns them easily around the floor, light on his feet, and she simply lets him lead.

Even here, in the sparkling warmth of the crowded ballroom, the tactile memory is crisp and clear: sharp cold air, whipping her hair around her face. The scratch of the red serge she doesn't often wear. And the strong arms around her, the shocking heat of a kiss that seemed unending. But that day atop the train was crackling, fraught with fear and desperation and _we might actually die_. This - this is more dangerous. This is slow and gentle and perfectly natural. Like this is what it was always meant to be. Like it was always inevitable.

And even the realization that Henri Cloutier's watching them, thinking she's sleeping with the tall, handsome constable, doesn't bother her.

She's thought about it. She can admit to herself that she's looked at Fraser and wondered about what he's like in bed. She's been attracted to him for a long time - she's not blind, and he is really incredibly handsome. But he's more than that. He's brave. Selfless. Humble. Intelligent. Gentle. Loyal.

And graceful.

"Fraser?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I didn't know you were such a good dancer."

He turns his face toward her, and she could swear she feels his lips brush softly over her temple.

"The right partner makes it worthwhile, ma'am."

Her breath catches, and she shivers as she feels his thumb slip above the line of her dress to brush over her back. Her eyes flick up to his, and they're deep, deep blue, more intense than she's ever seen, full of utter longing.

The song ends, and it's with regret that Meg steps back. Fraser's gazing at her with such pure, undisguised warmth in his expression, and she knows. And she wants to say something, but she doesn't know what.

Ever the gentleman, he takes her hand, walking her off the dance floor. "Thank you for the dance, Inspector."

"Of course."

She wants to keep dancing with him. She wants to stay on this floor and ignore everything else, exchange soft whispers in each other's ears. Lean into the warmth of his body. Press her cheek to his and ignore everything else.

"And - if I may, ma'am - you really do look beautiful this evening."

She can see it in his eyes - he's been trying to decide whether or not to say it, all night.

"Thank you, Fraser."

He looks like he's about to say something, but the French attaché chooses that moment to appear, raving to her about the delightful floral arrangements and how much he loves the waiters' uniforms, and Fraser gives her one last smoldering look before he leaves.

* * *

An hour later, Meg finds herself drooping a bit - after all, it's been a long week and she's been at work since seven today - and decides to step out for a moment. The three visiting MPs - the guests of honor - are enjoying themselves, and the party can easily do without her for a few minutes.

She slips out the back of the ballroom unnoticed and up the stairs, finding her office blissfully quiet. With a deep breath, she sinks into the couch, closing her eyes. She likes formal occasions like tonight; she enjoys meeting people, and it's an important part of diplomacy. But every so often, she needs to step back and relax.

There's a soft tap at her door, and sure enough, Fraser leans in. "Inspector? I'm sorry, I hope I'm not bothering you."

"Not at all." She sits up. "Come in."

"Is anything wrong?"

"No, no. it's fine. I just - needed some air."

"I thought so, ma'am. I did take the liberty of bringing you some water."

She accepts it gratefully. How does he instinctively know so much? He's infernally observant, but still. This is impressive. "Thank you."

"Is your shoulder all right?"

"Fine. It hasn't been bothering me."

"Very good, ma'am."

He nods, still uneasily standing in front of her, and she remembers that he's been here since six thirty this morning.

"You're welcome to have a seat, Constable."

"Thank you, ma'am."

He sits beside her on the couch, looking perfectly calm, as always. They don't normally do this, sneak out of official events together to hide out in her office. But there's something so comfortable about it; she usually gets so flustered around him, but now sitting with him feels like the most natural thing in the world, fitting with the intimacy of him helping her on with her dress, sweeping her into his arms on the dance floor, and telling her she looks beautiful.

Though if Henri saw both of them leave, he's going to think they're -

_That's_ a thought that takes her right back towards flustered.

Her eyes fall, unbidden, to Fraser's mouth, and the persistent memory returns, icy wind and strong arms and _need_.

"Ma'am?"

Her eyes flick up to his.

"Fraser. I don't -" she doesn't know what to say, or even what she's trying to say. But something about this moment needs - needs _honesty_. "I'm not sure -"

"Ma'am. If I may -" he takes a deep breath - "what happened that day, on the train -"

"Fraser -"

"- I can't forget. And - and I'm not sorry." He fixes her with an earnest look, determination written on his face. "You told me it was not to be repeated, and I understand, but - I wouldn't forget it, ma'am. Not for anything."

Meg holds her breath.

"And - ma'am, I wouldn't presume - that is - unless -"

She knows he needs her to make the first move, give acquiescence, give him the hint that she's amending what she said.

So she leans forward slightly and lets her gaze fall back to his mouth.

It's slow, cautious, but not tentative. His hands come to her face, brushing her hair back, tracing the line of her jaw, and with perfect tenderness, he gently tips her face towards his and kisses her on the lips.

His mouth is soft on hers, delicate and patient, nothing like that frenzied embrace atop a runaway train. She sinks into him, burying her fingers in his hair, a soft sigh escaping her as his tongue slips into her mouth. Her pulse is racing, her entire body deliciously weak, and -

"Excuse- oh! Oh. Uh. I'm sorry. I - sorry."

Turnbull freezes, stares, gapes, shuts his mouth again, and walks out.

"Oh, dear."

Meg huffs out a short laugh. Fraser summed it up rather nicely.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't think to shut the door."

"Fraser, you don't need to apologize." She reaches for his hand, squeezing it gently, and he covers it with his larger one.

"Inspector -" he looks down at their joined hands - "I - well, I confess I don't quite know what to say."

"Neither do I."

They fall silent. She watches his thumb stroke the back of her hand gently. She and Fraser may be near opposites in many ways, but it seems they both have the same aversion to verbalizing emotions.

"You know, that day on the train, when - when I thought you'd fallen to your death -" she shuts her eyes briefly, reliving that sick coldness, the sudden, overwhelming nausea that froze her - "that's when - I think that's when I realized, really, that - I felt something. Something real."

She steals a glance at him, and there's no mirth in his eyes. They're deep blue, blazing with intensity. Fraser's quick to apologize, and sometimes comes off as an oaf, but there's a depth to him. And when he knows what he wants, he's single-minded. Determined.

"When I watched that car pull away with you on it, that gun to your head -" he shakes his head - "I couldn't think about anything else. I would have thrown myself after it to help you."

"I know." She'd seen it in his eyes.

"I don't - that is - I don't intend this to be fleeting, ma'am. My - feelings - for you are very strong, and I've felt this way for some time."

"I feel - the same way, Fraser."

His hand comes to cup her cheek again, and Meg holds her breath.

"So what now?" he asks quietly.

"Now?"

"I mean - that is, do we - may I ask you to dinner, ma'am?"

Meg bites her lip, smiling. "I'd like that."

"Good."

It's stilted and uncertain, because now that they've minced through this terrifying morass of _feelings_ she finds herself craving the security of officiality. Maybe a notarized statement of lip contact. She could type up a relationship status update. In triplicate.

She's much more amenable to the idea of staying right where they are and practicing more of this kissing that he seems so very good at, but Fraser glances at his wristwatch. "I'm afraid we should head back down to the ballroom, Inspector."

Meg groans. Henri's probably already looking for her. "Are you certain Detective Vecchio doesn't have some urgent case we can solve? Something that involves leaving? - right now?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am." He grins cheekily. "Though I've asked Mr. Ovitz to keep a close eye on Mr. Cloutier. And to call him a taxi as soon as he shows signs of intoxication. I don't believe he'll be bothering you."

"Really?" He nods. "I appreciate that."

"Just doing my job."

Meg's about to point out that chivalrous displays of protective behavior aren't at all his job, but then, she realizes, Fraser's concept of loyalty is an all-consuming one. It's surprised her more than once. He doesn't really do anything halfway, does he?

Is he going to court her? Actually, legitimate courtship - moonlit strolls, romantic dinners, flowers, walking her to her door and handwritten notes? It's old-fashioned, but that seems to be his forte. And she actually finds the thought of it remarkably appealing.

"What?"

She realizes she's been smiling. She bites her lip. "You have lipstick on your face."

His eyebrows go up, and he fumbles in a pocket for a handkerchief. "Do I? That sounds rather scandalous."

"Here." She plucks the handkerchief from his hands, flicks a bit of water on it, and carefully wipes away the traces of her lipstick, flushing hotly. She marked him pretty thoroughly. "Red suits you, Constable."

He gives her a lopsided smile at that, his eyes sparkling dangerously, and the heat in her veins tempts her to suggest they stay right here and explore each other's mouths some more.

"You've saved me, ma'am. Thank you."

* * *

Fraser follows her down the stairs, hovering behind her as she pauses in the foyer. "You coming, Fraser?"

"I'll join you in a moment, ma'am."

She catches his wrist as he turns to go. "Fraser?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Save me the last dance?"

Fraser raises her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to it.

"With pleasure."


End file.
